Greg sat alone in
his office, fiddling with the
knick knacks strewn across his desk, a
Newton’s
Cradle, a box of paper clips. A shrill voice
buzzed in
his ear, though he was alone in his lavish
basement work suite. He raised a finger to
his
head, pushing his two-way earpiece
transmitter
further back into the ear canal, until he
could
make out what the voice was saying. It was
his
secretary.
“Mistuh Proops,” she addressed in a
high-pitched voice, very Yentl-esque,
“Cloive
requests your presence upstay-uhs.”
“Thanks Jan,” Greg replied, turning
down
the volume of the earpiece. ‘A voice
that cuts right
through your head,’ he thought to
himself, getting
up from his desk and making his way to the
frosted glass door. He wondered what
improbable
mission Clive would have for them this time,
as he
walked passed the secretarial desk, waving
halfheartedly at Jan, who smiled adoringly at
him.
Greg made his way to the lift, and pressed
the button for the eighth floor. He waited
patiently
as the elevator climbed from the
sub-basement, to
the basement, to the ground floor, and on up,
until
it hit his destination. The car made a
satisfactory
“ding” as the doors whooshed open,
and,
smoothing out his navy sports jacket, Greg
exited.
He strode down the hall, past all the potted
plants and lithographs hanging from the wall.
He
rounded a corridor, made his way to the end,
and
found the room he was looking for. Clive
Anderson’s personal office; His name was
etched
in black on the wooden door. Greg grasped the
brass knob, turning it ever so slowly.
Finally, he
pushed it open and entered the room.
On the far side of the office -which was
hugely vast compared to Greg’s own- he
saw Clive
at his desk. Tony Slattery, (who had
inevitably been
alerted previously of the meeting) was
standing
slightly to the side of him, and they were
both
looking down at something, papers probably,
that
laid out upon the desk. As Greg surveyed the
room quickly before Clive noticed his
company, he
also saw the Brad Sherwood was there, sitting
quietly in a chair off to the side.
Clad in his usual bowling shirt, dark
cotton/polyester pants ensemble, he looked a
little uncomfortable. As Greg stepped into
the
room, closing the door behind him, Brad
looked up.
He rose from his chair, gaining the attention
of the
other two men at the desk.
“Hey Greg,” Brad greeted, looking
quite a
bit less nervous.
“Hello Greg,” Clive offered,
“Glad you could
join us. Now, you and Brad, pull up a seat
near the
desk, yes that’s it, and I’ll tell
you why I’ve called you
all up here.” The bald man motioned for
Tony to
get a chair as well, and the three men then
sat in
a row, overlooking the desk, facing Clive.
“It has been brought to my
attention,” Clive
began, sighed, and continued, “That
there seems
to be a group of people going around, telling
bad
jokes, bringing down the name of comedy, and
generally jolly well making fools of
themselves.”
Brad and Greg looked worriedly at one
another, and Tony leaned over silently
gesturing
that Clive was not referring to either of
them.
“I’ve called all of you -my best
agents- up
here to see what can be done about this
nuisance.” Clive clasped his hands
together,
looking intently at the three men.
“Firstly,” Tony piped up, “I
suggest you start
calling us by the code-names you and I went
over
earlier. I mean, we ARE a secret underground
organization, aren’t we?”
Clive rolled his eyes, but obliged. “All
right,
Tony ---,” he was cut short by Tony
waving his finger
and shaking his head negatively, “All
right, Fluffy
Donkey,” Clive said, addressing Tony by
his
code-name. Tony leaned back in his chair,
satisfied.
This intrigued Greg. “Hey what’s
my... Oh,
nevermind,” he trailed off, expecting
more
patronization from Clive.
“Never fear, Ocelot Daddy, the names
were
chosen by the Fluffy Donkey,” Clive
assured Greg,
almost cracking up as he did.
“Ocelot Daddy?” Brad reiterated in
mock
disgust, chuckling a little.
“Don’t knock the name, Junior
Simian,“
Tony replied, his delicious British accent
rolled off
of every word.
“I can live with that,” Brad
affirmed,
crossing his arms over his chest.
Then Greg got an idea. “Hey Fluffy
Donkey
dude,” he turned, looking over Brad, who
was in
between himself and Tony, “What do we
call
no-neck?” he asked, pointing at Clive.
“Can you think of something worse than
being called Clive Anderson?” Tony
answered
Greg’s question with another.
“So we’re calling him Clive
then?”
“Do you think we should?”
“Shouldn’t you be the one
deciding?”
“Should I?”
“That was repetitious,” Clive
chimed in.
Brad took it from there. “What do YOU
think we should call him?”
“What happened to the other guy?”
Greg
continued.
“Do you really want to know?”
“Hey, don’t I know you?”
“Were you at Woodstock?”
“Do you think I’m that old?”
“Do you think I’m stupid enough to
answer
that?”
“All right, all right, calm down you
guys,” a
new voice said. Everyone in the room turned
to
see a very tall figure standing in the
doorway.
“Thank God you’re here, Captain
Giraffe!”
Tony exclaimed, as Ryan strutted into the
room.
“Sorry I’m late, but there was a
shoe sale
at the mall.” Ryan raised his left foot,
wiggling it
around to signify the shoes he wore -which
were
painfully yellow with splotches of purple-
were new.
“OK, now that we’re all
assembled,” Ryan
pulled up a chair as Clive went on,
“Let’s get back
to the task at hand.”
“Yes,” Tony agreed.
“Would you like to take it from
here?” Clive
inquired.
“All right.” Tony took a deep
breath, “Clive
was talking earlier about a certain group of
improvisers, people whom I call the
‘Whoser
Losers’.”
“Who are these people?” Brad asked.
“The Whoser Losers consist of the
‘Trinity
of the Unfunny’ and their minions of
Hierarchy,”
Tony explained, “In short, the Trinity
consists of
Ron West -he isn’t funny, he was never
funny, and
he’ll never BE funny-, Archie Hahn -dare
he show
his pony-tailed self on our beloved
soundstage
again?-, and Debi Durst -need I say more?.
Their
minions include Betty Thomas (who used to
hold
Debi’s place in the Trinity), Sam
Johnson, and Jane
Bruckner. It pains me just to mention those
names.”
Ryan laid a hand on his shoulder,
sympathetically.
“So what’s our plan of action to
deal with
the Whoser Losers?” Greg shifted in his
seat,
secretly feeling sorry for Archie Hahn, being
a
fellow Californian and all.
“That is why we have all
culminated,” Tony
answered, “Clive?”
“Well,” Clive appeared to be going
through
a drawer in his desk, “I have some props
for you to
use to assist you in stopping the Trinity of
the
Unfunny.” He brought out novelty
oversized foam
fingers, and handed them to Ryan and Tony.
“You
two will be working with these,” Clive
reached back
into his desk until he found something for
Brad
and Greg, “And you two with this,”
he handed them
a pair of flashy, sparkly, *gawdy*,
sunglasses.
“What are we gonna do?” Brad asked,
putting on the sunglasses, “Scare them
by
impersonating Elton John?” At this, Greg
started
cracking up.
“I don’t know, you run with
it,” Clive
responded.
With that, the meeting was adjourned, and
the two groups went off to formulate plans
for
vindicating comedy from the clutches of the
Trinity
of the Unfunny.
